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Speech Therapy

 David Sedaris once wrote an essay called "Peach Pearapy," and it was about how his elementary school leaders wanted to reform his speaking. The therapy was really a coded effort to make David sound "less gay."


Of course, the therapy didn't work, and the humor of the story comes from all the bells and whistles surrounding a basically useless endeavor.

I think of this, sometimes, as I drive my child to speech therapy. The work involves a notebook; I am to ingest helpful suggestions at the end of each session, then I'm to practice with Josh in the living room and jot down my observations.

Encourage imaginative play with puppets. Use a "fence" with your child, so he can really focus. Have snacks available at all times, just to encourage positive non-bottle feeding experiences. Practice simple commands. Drill the body-part terms. Encourage "sensory play" with yogurt, apple sauce, lotion, Play-Doh, shampoo. Get out the flashcards. I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a hearing issue, but schedule a *new* audiology exam, just to cross your Ts.

I'm really tired of this shit. I know I'm whining from a place of privilege, but I don't care. I dream of tossing my observational notebook in a large bonfire.

On the other hand, if the session is cancelled, I find that the day is 6,000 hours long. I dream of the car ride to the therapist's office, the brief glimpse of varied scenery, the cozy chair in the waiting room.

Then the sessions resume -- and I'm back where I started.
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